


a stranger in his skin

by sordes



Series: The Temple Harlot [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Dementia, Drabble, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 01:58:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sordes/pseuds/sordes
Summary: Neither can count the number of instances Gilgamesh had looked at Ardyn like that, as if his heart is overflowing with emotion, though his lips refuse to tremble, his shoulders still and relaxed. Ardyn’s memory is hazy these days; the details of their life together often escape him, but on some mornings, there’s a clarity to it all and he has enough of his faculties to realize how much more the act of forgetting pains Gilgamesh than it does him. On the days the haze clears, he does his best to rekindle that intellectual spark, tongue not as quick as it once was, but still a glint of sharpness to it, playful.Written for the Day 7 Ardyn YesCon Week prompt "Contentment" / "You have me."





	a stranger in his skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AccursedSpatula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccursedSpatula/gifts).



> Beta'd by [AccursedSpatula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/accursedspatula). Thank you for getting me through this week, friend.

They're not so young anymore.

Some days it’s all Ardyn can do to get out of bed, to walk or talk or function on his own. It’s too much to eat or drink, not that he seems to feel the hunger or thirst anyway. Other days it’s all too much, and he pretends to sleep, to make as if he simply laid his head down upon his pillow the night before and drifted off, far beyond these shores, never to be seen or heard from again.

But each morning, even the hard ones— _especially the hard ones_ —Gilgamesh is there sitting at the foot of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He looks much as he did all those years ago, a few more scars or wrinkles on his rough skin, a shock of silver in his beard, but his eyes are the same. Infinitely patient, too indulgent of him, even, loving through and through.

Neither can count the number of instances Gilgamesh had looked at Ardyn like that, as if his heart is overflowing with emotion, though his lips refuse to tremble, his shoulders still and relaxed. Ardyn’s memory is hazy these days; the details of their life together often escape him, but on some mornings, there’s a clarity to it all and he has enough of his faculties to realize how much more the act of forgetting pains Gilgamesh than it does him. On the days the haze clears, he does his best to rekindle that intellectual spark, tongue not as quick as it once was, but still a glint of sharpness to it, playful.

Ardyn doesn’t want to sleep on those nights, not knowing who he’ll be the next morning. If he’ll remember himself, or if he’ll finally be reduced to a drooling sack of bones, ignorant to the years of work they collectively poured into their relationship, the bond and commitment they sweated and bled for. They haven’t shared a bed, not in that way, for some time, but Ardyn can still be a holy terror when denied, when treated like the ailing man that he is, so on this night Gilgamesh indulges him.

Gilgamesh arranges Ardyn on his side and pulls him close to his chest, resting his cheek on the top of his head. He thinks things will stop here, that Ardyn will fall asleep and though he’ll hold him a while longer, in time he’ll gently extricate himself from Ardyn’s tangled limbs and find his own slumber on the other side of the bed. Gilgamesh used to hold him through the night, afraid to let go, sometimes waking up in a panic on the other side of the bed, wrenching back the blankets to ensure Ardyn’s chest was still rising and falling in that same even and easy pattern. Now he regards the feeling of Ardyn’s heartbeat with dread instead of hope, too afraid to feel it weaken and stop altogether, powerless to do anything but sit there and watch and listen. But tonight, Ardyn doesn’t go willingly into sleep—he shrugs the mantle off time and time again, nestling his face deeper into Gilgamesh’s neck and chest, his breath hot and for the first time in years, Gilgamesh feels that he’s really alive in his arms, that _his_ Ardyn has returned to him from the haze of dementia. That he knows where he is and who he is with and Ardyn is clinging, clinging to Gilgamesh and by proxy to the shreds of who he once was. Gilgamesh can’t bring himself to say anything, to break the spell, so he just lets Ardyn paw at him and feel him. He’s not going anywhere tonight.

That night Ardyn stirs in Gilgamesh’s arms in ways Gilgamesh thought he had forgotten how to. Gilgamesh doesn’t know if it’s right to encourage him, or to just let him do as he pleases until he tires. His own body betrays his hesitation, though, as if Ardyn’s flipped a switch in his brain that had long been neglected and forgotten about. They move together almost like they’re teenagers again, afraid of appearing too eager, clumsy, fumbling around each other, sliding and rubbing together and eventually losing themselves in the other despite all attempts not to.

Ardyn shudders in his arms when it’s all over with and it pulls Gilgamesh back to the present. It was too much, too much excitement and stimulation, and he regrets it no matter how wonderful it felt in the moment. They’re stuck together, skin slick with sweat and it’s at first unclear where one body ends and the other begins. The practical side of Gilgamesh knows they can’t stay like this, can’t just sleep in their tangled mess like they would have years ago, and disturbingly, he knows he doesn’t want to. What he wouldn’t have given all those years ago to just lay idly with Ardyn, wrapped in each other’s arms, not a single worry for the day to come clouding things. But those days are long gone.

Ardyn’s already drifting off by the time Gilgamesh pulls himself free, and he doesn’t protest or fight as Gilgamesh scoops him into his arms. He just looks up at Gilgamesh, watching, as he’s carried to the bathroom and set down on the cool tile, still and malleable as Gilgamesh disrobes him. Ardyn just watches, Gilgamesh is unsure if he knows where he is anymore, as his body is washed in the warm water. It’s routine, the bathing ritual, Gilgamesh shielding his eyes when he rinses Ardyn’s hair, washing out the thick lather of the shampoo.

As much as Gilgamesh resents what the disease has done to Ardyn, he could never resent _him_.

He handles Ardyn’s body with the utmost of care, as if he’s made up of something far more delicate and priceless than glass. Gilgamesh is thorough in his care, glancing over to meet Ardyn’s puzzled gaze and offering a small smile as he works. He can remember the times they shared the tub, Ardyn nestled between his legs—it was the only way they’d fit. There are lascivious memories there, too, but he chooses to focus on the times after, when Ardyn would just lay his head back against his shoulder and breathe easily, every fiber of him at peace. They would stay like that until the water had gone cold, but now, with Gilgamesh’s practiced efficiency, Ardyn will be out of the tub before the steam ceases to billow from the surface.

Gilgamesh can’t stifle the chuckle when he recalls the first time they had laid like that, the way that Ardyn sneezed when they finally got out, his entire body wracked with chills. They told each other they wouldn’t tarry so long in the bath again, but time and time again they did, in the tub that was too small for them to recline in comfortably. It didn’t stop them.

“You’re thinking about me,” Ardyn says all of the sudden, a flicker of spark in his eyes.

Gilgamesh gives him an easy smile back. “What makes you so sure?”

“You always get that far off look in your eye when you are,” he returns, contemplative. “I do love it when you look like that.”

Gilgamesh counts his blessings for this moment of lucidness as he leans in and kisses Ardyn’s forehead. “I’m glad you’re here. Wish you’d stay longer this time.”

Ardyn just smiles at that and closes his eyes, sliding an inch deeper into the water. “So greedy,” he says, dreamily. “I was only gone... what? A few days to Duscae?”

Gilgamesh hums in response.

“Can’t exactly control where the scourge next rears its ugly head.”

“Of course.”

“I do love you, Gilgamesh,” he says, a hint of urgency in his words. He’s looking at Gilgamesh again like his trying to solve a puzzle, but not all of the pieces are there, he’s missing something critical. “It means—it means more than you know that you’re here, waiting for me.”

 _Ah._ Gilgamesh curses inwardly. Of all the memories for him to be stuck in, he’s remembering the time when, after a hard and largely unsuccessful journey, Ardyn returned to their home to find it empty, Gilgamesh, in a rare show of anger, having stepped out, tired of being left behind as Ardyn put body and soul on the line. He had returned, of course, and never departed in anger again, and so he squeezes Ardyn’s hand now, reassuring him of that commitment.

“You have me,” he says. “You’ll always have me.”

This seems to calm Ardyn slightly, his eyes drifting between Gilgamesh’s hand up to his face. He’s silent once more.

Gilgamesh helps him to stand a short while later, guides him one foot at of a time out of the tub, and wraps him in a towel, wicking away the droplets from his hair. He dresses Ardyn, sliding clean robes up both arms and onto his shoulders, then walks with him, slowly, back to the bedroom where he lays Ardyn down on his side of the bed. Ardyn looks up at him, like there’s something still there, some piece of the puzzle he’s trying desperately to put into place, but doesn’t have enough control over his faculties to ask for help.

“I love you,” Gilgamesh murmurs as he brings the blankets over Ardyn’s body and tucks him in. “More than you could ever know,” he adds, recalling Ardyn’s words.

Something inside is slowly giving way to shattering due to the way that Ardyn is looking up at him, a shard of recognition overshadowed by the haze of the disease. Gilgamesh leaves him there, using the excuse of the bathroom to part for now, swallowing thickly and fighting with everything left in him not to let this break him down.

He was content with the little moments of clarity. He was content with the occasional knowing looks. He was content with making do.

Gilgamesh reaches into the now lukewarm water in the tub and pulls the plug free, the water swirling as it’s sucked down the drain.

He was content to be the one left behind. He was content to live in memory. He was content to just have that.

Gilgamesh lingers at the side of the tub, watching the water go down, feeling it cascade around his fingers.

The glimpses behind the curtain of infirmness and disease are what makes it so hard, the reminders of what was and what could have been.

So Gilgamesh stays there until the water has all gone, until the tub is dry, the remaining droplets evaporated. He stays until the first hazy rays of sunlight pierce the slits of the curtains and even later until he first hears Ardyn stirring in the other room.

Contentment—it’s a strange concept to Gilgamesh, there’s no word for it in his mother tongue. But he gets to his feet regardless, walks the short path to the foot of their bed, and sits, waiting for Ardyn to wake. He reminds himself to be content with what they have left, with the shreds of normalcy he’s fought to maintain, but it doesn’t sit well with him—to settle with scraps.

He’s come to accept the mix of emotion when Ardyn comes to, the anticipation of recognition, the fear of ignorance, the love only a relationship of so many years can have, and the revulsion of his own cowardice. He’s still, watching and waiting for Ardyn to wake wondering all the while, who will he be met with today?


End file.
